LITMIR.BIZ

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statue from her as he grabbed her firmly around the waist. He dragged her to the door with him. She struggled wildly, but other than a wince when the heel of her boot connected with his shin and a rather explicit swearword, he ignored her.

      When he let go of her with one hand while he unlocked the front door, she wiggled free and took off at a run. He had his long, muscled arms around her waist again in less than a heartbeat and easily lifted her off the ground.

      “Gabriel Sinclair!” A woman’s voice boomed. “Get your hands off that woman this instant!”

      Chapter 2

      Gabe turned sharply at the sound of his sister’s voice. The wildcat woman in his arms went still.

      Cara stood in the doorway, a hand on one hip, a large brown paper bag balanced on the other. The heavenly scent of grilled hamburgers and hot, crispy fries filled the room.

      “For God’s sake, Gabe, let her go,” Cara repeated sharply.

      Gabe set the woman down and released her. She stepped quickly away, dragging one shaky hand through her tousled hair, glancing from him to his sister.

      The confusion on Cara’s face turned quickly to an astute understanding that he had called her here for help. If anyone could help this renegade woman, Gabe absolutely knew his sister could.

      “I apologize for Gabe’s lack of manners,” Cara said smoothly in a soft, calming voice. She snapped her gaze back to his and narrowed piercing blue eyes at him. “Shame on you.”

      Shame on him? Gabe ground his teeth and swore silently. He’d been kicked and scratched, and his left shin hurt like a son of a bitch. Females, he thought bitterly. Who would ever understand them?

      With a toss of her blond head, Cara turned her attention back to the other woman and smiled. “I’m Cara Shawnessy,” she said evenly. “This ape here is my brother.”

      Ape? He pressed his lips into a thin line. Gee, thanks, sis.

      At the sound of a small whimper from the living room, the woman turned, then hurried back to her son. Cara glanced at Gabe, her gaze questioning, but he simply shrugged and shook his head.

      Gabe held back when Cara moved into the living room and stood beside the sofa. “Would it be all right if we sat down and talked while we ate? I hope you like cheeseburgers and fries.”

      The woman gathered her son in her arms, and the glimmer of tears Gabe saw in her eyes caught like sawdust in his throat. He knew she wanted to refuse, he could see it in her hesitation, but when she looked at the bag of food in Cara’s hand, then back at her son, she let out a long, surrendering breath and nodded. “That’s very kind of you.”

      “It’s the least I can do, especially after the way my brother manhandled you.” Cara ignored the rude sound that Gabe made and smiled at the woman’s young son, who was wide-awake now and watching all the adults around him. “Do you like pickles?” she asked the child.

      The boy stuck a stubby finger into his mouth and nodded shyly. Cara unwrapped a thick quarter slice and offered it to him. He hesitated, then looked at his mother. Smiling, she smoothed one slender hand over his rumpled blond hair. “It’s all right, sweetheart. You can have it.”

      Eyes bright, he took the crisp pickle and bit in, chewing around a mumbled “thank you.”

      When a drop of juice fell onto the boy’s pale blue T-shirt, Cara handed his mother some napkins. “It’s optional,” Cara said gently, “but it would be easier if you told me your names.”

      Gabe watched the woman’s hand tighten around the napkins, saw the instinctive stiffening of her slender shoulders.

      “You’re safe here,” Cara assured her. “You and your son.”

      Gabe saw the distrust in the woman’s face when she glanced over at him. He frowned, unreasonably irritated that she obviously thought him a threat. She stared at him, her soft gray eyes uncertain and a little bit afraid. Damn if those eyes of hers didn’t cut right through to his gut.

      “Melanie,” she whispered, still looking at him. “My son is Kevin.”

      Kevin sunk his teeth into another bite of pickle. “I’m four years old,” he offered.

      It drove Gabe nuts, but Cara didn’t ask any questions, just chattered on about the weather as she unwrapped food and set everything out on the coffee table, including two sodas. She’d known to bring the hamburgers and fries when he’d asked for two of Reese’s best, but she’d thrown the drinks in on her own.

      “Gabe, I’m going to need that report for my board meeting in the morning.” She pulled a thick paper cup of steaming black coffee out of her bag of tricks and brought it to him. “Will you be able to work up something rough for me in the next hour?”

      His sister was kicking him out of here, he realized with a start. She didn’t want him around while she talked to the woman. He ground his back teeth. Damn you, Cara. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. Felt that he had some small right to at least a little information.

      But Cara’s expression was firm and definitely told him to get the hell out.

      He frowned at her. “Sure. I’ll, ah, just start in the kitchen. Check out the pipes and electricity.”

      “Thanks.”

      The single word was a dismissal. He glanced back at the woman—Melanie—felt her gaze follow him until he left the room.

      He threw himself completely into his inspection, forced himself to think about wiring and water pressure instead of the woman with the sad, haunted look in her pale gray eyes.

      Forty-five minutes later, Gabe leaned against the peeling white paint of a front porch column of the old house, gnawing impatiently on the end of an “It’s a Boy” cigar. Six months ago, Wayne Thompson, the proud papa, had handed them out to every male over eighteen in Bloomfield County. Gabe had put the cigar in the glove box of his truck and nearly forgotten about it, but needing something to occupy his mind and hands for the past few minutes, he’d rooted around inside his truck until he’d found the stogie, then lit it up.

      He decided that smoking a handful of stinkweed would hold more appeal than Wayne’s six-month-old cigar.

      Spitting a piece of stale, harsh tobacco from the tip of his tongue, he stared at the front door. Cara had been in there with the woman and her son for almost an hour now, and though he’d heard their soft murmurs as he’d passed through the house, they’d all but forgotten his existence.

      Hey, sis, remember me? The one who called you? I’m waitin’ out here.

      Frowning, he flicked an ash over the porch railing and watched it float silently into the darkness and disappear. It hadn’t taken him long to do a preliminary inspection and work up a rough estimate. The house had been built to last, but had been neglected for several years. From what he could see on the surface alone, the repairs were going to be extensive, and there was no telling what he’d find once he started opening things up. With a crew of three men and himself, Gabe expected to be working here several weeks to bring the house to code and make it salable.

      He glanced back at the front door. What the hell were they doing in there?

      Soft, yellow light spilled from the living room window, and he edged his way across the porch. Just a peek, he told himself, to make sure Cara was handling the situation all right.

      He tossed the cigar into the paper cup he’d brought out on the porch with him, heard the sizzle of the burning tip as it hit the remnants of his coffee.

      Backing against the wall by the front door, he casually turned his head—

      When the front door opened he jumped, then straightened quickly. One brow arched, Cara stood in the doorway, staring at him through the screen door. The woman, Melanie, stood beside her.

      He leaned

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